We're into the dark days now, waking up in the dark, coming home in the dark. Dark. The urge to hibernate is sort of overpowering. All I want to do once I put Botany to bed is lie down on the sofa (or even crawl into my own bed) and sleep. Instead I hang up the laundry and make the lunch and sort out the clothes for tomorrow; when I finally get around to setting the alarm on my mobile phone for the next day, I am disappointed at the little data read out telling me I have to be up in approximately 7 hours and 20 minutes. Bite me.
Both Botany and I are continuing to fend off what seems like an endless bout of threadworms. At least, I'm pretty sure she still has them, judging from recent nappy inspections (phwarg) and from my ongoing...symptoms. We've been through two dosings of anti-worming medication but it only kills the worms, not the eggs, which can live for up to something like six weeks, clinging onto everything in sight. I have done multiple loads of laundry, washing seemingly everything in the house, including many of Botany's soft toys. I've hoovered and dusted. We've clipped our fingernails down to nubs. And I wash my hands about nine hundred gazillionity times a day. Yet still the little bastards persist! Knox brought me a whole box of rubber gloves as a present the other day (sexy!) for nappy changing purposes. But it sort of defeats any hygiene advantage that may be gained when an uncontrollable Botany goes wriggling off the mat, running starkers down the hallway screaming "Look at me, I'm skipping!" and no doubt shedding thousands of little egglets as she goes.
I can tell you that I was initially a bit hesitant about owning up to this particular problem. People don't really talk about such matters around the water cooler (or indeed, much of anywhere, it seems)- I guess somehow the notion of parasites just generally gives folk the shudders. And so where better to unburden oneself about such an annoyance other than in front of the entire internets? Also, ever since my days of invasive infertility treatment, I've tried to take the Ranulph Fiennes approach to life. For those of you not familiar with Sir Fiennes, I can tell you he is a charmingly eccentric British adventurer, probably best known for a number of successful but rather bonkers polar expeditions. You know, the type of person who tries to walk to the South Pole with nothing but a cat named Molly, a wooly jumper and packet of rich tea biscuits, ending up starving and delirious on the Ross Ice Shelf. Oh, and after one such endeavour, once back at home he amputated his own frostbitten fingertips with a hacksaw in his garden shed, rather than endure the rather inconvenient wait for surgery.
Anyway, he's written some interesting books, most of which I have read and I seem to recall that in one chapter he recounts how he is never embarrassed about anything, ever. How refreshing that must be. I reckon Sir Fiennes wouldn't bat an eyelash about having threadworms. He's probably had some sort of exotic bug that lays spores in your inner ear, creating a strange fondness for irritating pop tunes and Morris dancing.
The bottom line (oh ha ha ha) is I gather these particular parasites don't do any real harm. But ideally, if I were to get pregnant, I'd really like to get shut of them beforehand- since the medication is apparently not suitable during pregnancy. One additional passenger for nine months would be enough, thanks.